


Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves

by GalaxyGazing



Category: The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: M/M, Male Slash, Oral Sex, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:51:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyGazing/pseuds/GalaxyGazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clopin is a street performer by day, prostitute by night. He cleverly manages to get Phoebus to utilize his services.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by a song by Cher. Written in 2010.

Clopin had been called a plethora of unfavorable names his entire life:

Gypsy? Certainly. Tramp? Undeniable, but _thief_? That he was not.

He, along with the rest of his gypsy brethren, had a hard enough time living in Paris as it was, what with the vicious rumors of the wicked nature of ‘their kind’ smogging the air in hushed whispers.

How were the gypsies ever to gain fair recognition among the population if enough of them lived up to their unfavorable titles? For the sake of his future and armed with a determination not to be seen as scum his entire life, Clopin did not contribute to the disdainful acts of robbery.

Instead, he worked hard for an honest pay. By day, he collected his coins from the children as they skipped, readily brandishing their loot to see another exciting adventure in the Gypsy’s puppet theatre and hear another captivating tale.

By night, he earned his coins in a rather different way.

“You shouldn’t make yourself so obvious so late,” The soldier advised as he approached the street performer, who was only too noticeable clad garishly in his typical purple attire.

Clopin leaned confidently and unmoving against the alley wall, raising an eyebrow that rose above the brow of his mask. His arms were crossed challengingly and a small smile perked at the corners of his lips. The solider clarified,

“I don’t suspect you’re doing anything wrong, but I wouldn’t expect the other guards to assume the best in you. They’ve deemed any gypsy at night to be ‘up to something.’”

This soldier was different than the rest and it peaked Clopin’s interest right away. Perhaps he may get some enjoyment out of this, after all.

“Who is to say I am not?” Clopin offered with a rather daring inflection. This was always the hardest part, coaxing them in.

“Please don’t give me a reason to arrest you, that’s not why I came down here.”

“Then why are you here?”

The gypsy asked, shifting his weight off of the wall and slinking towards the blonde man, arms still folded.

“Just making my way home.”

Clopin loved and hated this part of the game; it was like playing with fire: if he said the wrong words to the wrong soldier, he could lose his life. On the other hand, if he said the right words to the right man, he’d gain both a returning customer and a regular source of income. That was a risk he had to take.

“Alone?” He inquired, walking next to the man who had continued his journey down the dark path, the cobblestone road flickering with the orange glow from the candlelight streetlamps.

“Obviously.”

“Then perhaps it is not my safety you should be concerned with.”

“If you’re going to rob me I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed to find I’m not carrying any gold," The soldier said rather bluntly with an unfazed smile, trekking onward.

“I am no thief!” Clopin snarled, sharply turning his head to face the guard, fists clenching at the very thought of the implication. However, he recollected his composure and tried again in a gentler voice,

“I was merely stating there are a lot of interesting folk that come out at this hour. Unholy folk. Scammers, dealers…prostitutes.”

He could tell that he soldier is listening, but wondered if he understood. He pressed onward,

“Think of it, right under the nose of Notre Dame herself! One might think it inexcusably despicable…unless they stopped to consider that such lifestyles may be one’s only way to earn a living.”

The blonde looked over, his narrowed gaze and thinly pursed lips revealed that the message had, indeed, been received. This was the first time that Clopin had ever come close to playing the sympathy card, but he was able to read his audience well—this guard was different. And it was not as if he had told a lie; the performer’s words were entirely genuine.

Clopin noticed that they had stopped before a door, having arrived at the blonde’s home. He waited until the man he has been accompanying gave a long sigh and then held open the door for him.

Whether out of pity or the charm of seduction, the gypsy had been let in. His advances had been a success. The soldier lit a few candles in the dark abode before he searched through a drawer, returning to his guest with a small sack of valuable metal,

“I don’t need your services, just take it.”

“I’m not a charity case. I will work for it,” Clopin explained, a bit insulted.

“Don’t be stubborn. Gold is gold.”

“And work is work! If you gave out gold to every gypsy for nothing in return, then you’d be the one in the poor house and the lazy would rule Paris. I do my best not to associate with those who expect pay without contribution to society. Not all of us are thieves.”

“So, those who are not thieves are whores?”

“Work is work,” Clopin repeated.

A difficult situation it was for the soldier, but he truthfully did desire to help the performer and agreed with his philosophies. Perhaps it was alright to indulge in sin just this once, for a good cause. Shrouded in a curtain of night, they’d be hid well from the eyes of the cathedral.

The defeated soldier awkwardly fingered the pull string of the coin purse,

“So, do I pay you before or after—“

“After, love. I trust you’re an honest man.”

Despite being new to the house, Clopin led his customer instinctively to the correct door: the bedroom.

There was silence for a while as the heavy golden armor was shucked off, revealing humble cotton clothes beneath. The gypsy tried to fill the quiet air and put the man at ease,

“Tell me your name, we should be personable.”

“Phoebus. Don’t tell me yours. If this business ever gets you into trouble, I don’t want to have to lie if I’m ever asked if I knew you.”

“Smart man; but you’ll find gypsies are pretty good at avoiding trouble. We only find it when we seek it.”

The sentence finished with Clopin closing the space between their lips. The kiss was purposefully chaste because he could tell such an honorable man was new to such forwardness and was understandably apprehensive—but he knew kisses were not what Phoebus was paying for—it was mainly just to shock him into submission.

It worked.

Clopin pushed down gently on Phoebus’ shoulders to make him sit on the edge of the bed and the man, still stunned from the kiss, was only too compliant to do so.

The performer’s gaudy feathered hat was removed, but the mask remained. He had a feeling Phoebus would have preferred him to keep it on anyway as a deliberate effort not to light any candles in the room was made.

He fell to his knees. This was something he’d done only too many times.

Unfortunately, his poverty did not allow him the luxury to choose solely customers that interested him—he’d been involved in numerous business trips that brought him no pleasure whatsoever, pressing onward with only the reward of gold in mind. Males, females, soldiers, commoners, everyone and anyone who was willing to pay for his services was welcome to.

That was why Clopin cherished this moment because it was one of the rare times in which he was actually enjoying the man he is pleasuring.

He rubbed Phoebus through the fabric, just enough until he could feel him begin to arouse, before parting the folds of his trousers and exposing him to the cool air of the dark room.

The man had been well blessed and Clopin surprised himself at just how eager he was to get his lips around him, but he silently vowed to start out slow to give him the best service possible.

He kissed the base of the shaft, nuzzling up and down, ghosting his lips over the heated, stretched flesh of the now fully erect cock. But, eventually, the kisses became more than a ghost, more than a fleeting sensation as the gypsy flicked his tongue out to lap the entirety of the erection.

To quell the slow torture of the teasing licks, Clopin wrapped a comforting hand around the body of Phoebus’ member, giving it a few, consistent squeezes to assure the solider that he would give him full relief in a moment, silently suggesting patience in the meantime.

The customer was only too grateful that the darkness lended itself as his own mask, afraid to stare and seem rude or openly display how indescribably wonderful it felt and melt from embarrassment. For now, he tried to suppress both his voice and ecstasy, kneading fistfuls of bed sheets in his sweaty palms.

Clopin loved the man’s cock with his mouth, tilting his head to suck upon it long ways, flattening his tongue to the underside of it and sliding along the length as if it were an instrument. When he rubbed a sly finger over the slit and heard Phoebus give a sharp hiss, he knew he was finally ready.

Running a tongue upwards along the vein all the way to the tip, Clopin stopped when he reached the head. Precum was already beading in clear globes, threatening to spill down the shaft but the gypsy greedily swallowed them up before they had the chance.

After abusing the too-sensitive slit a bit more with a bit of pressure from his curious tongue, Clopin circled the crown, regularly sipping at the persistent drops of fluid. Then, at last, the gypsy decided he liked the man too much to torture him any further and swallowed him down completely.

Phoebus’ hips gave an instinctive buck and, despite all his resistive efforts, a hearty moan escaped him. His hands moved to twine into the straight, black hair.

The man’s desperate, wordless noise of encouragement fueled Clopin onward and he decided to really impress him now. Years of practice had taught the gypsy to calm his gag reflex and he tried to relax the back of his throat.

He bobbed once for preparation, gulping half of him down. Twice to be sure, still, just half, and on the third try, Clopin fully and professionally deep throated the man, nose pressing into the soft golden curls.

It was all Phoebus could do to keep from holding the gypsy’s head steady and shamelessly fuck his mouth. Instead, he trusted that Clopin would take care of him and resisted every urge he had to thrust upward.

The prostitute did not disappoint and drew in his cheeks as he sucked the blonde down entirely each time. His hands were put to other uses as he fondled the man’s sac with one and rubbed his inner thigh with the other.

Phoebus could feel the pressure swell as Clopin bobbed faster and sucked harder. Attempting to keep his manners, he cautioned him,

“Ugh—If you don’t want to swallow, now’s a good time to _stop._ ”

But, again, Clopin was insulted. Even the most inexperienced prostitutes knew that spitting was both unprofessional and insulting to the customer. Swallowing was a must in Clopin’s book and, for once, he was enthusiastic to indulge in all that his customer could give him.

Tightening his fists into the gypsy’s raven hair, Phoebus arched forward and gave a cry. Clopin, fully prepared, drew upon him harder to literally milk the pleasure out of him.

There was no possible way of holding back at this point and, as Phoebus hit the very back of the gypsy’s throat, he burst. Showing off, Clopin did not pull away before swallowing and, instead, guzzled it down consistently as it came, esophagus convulsing to push it downward, making lovely, audible gulping sounds.

Clopin waited for Phoebus to finish and, even afterward, gave a few more amiable sucks to make absolutely sure the soldier had spilled all that he had. Finally, the gypsy released him without so much as a cough. He licked his teeth to display an empty mouth.

The soldier slowly recovered from seeing white spots pop behind his eyelids. He couldn’t manage any words, but nothing really needed to be said.

Retrieving his hat and placing it atop his head, Clopin stood to his feet with a smirk that, were it visible in the darkness, would have revealed just how very satisfied he was with himself.

He lingered while Phoebus regained his motor skills and ability to form coherent sentences,

“Oh, right,” he stammered weakly, reaching over to his pouch of coins and rewarding the prostitute with all of it.

“You tip generously, monsieur,” Clopin said as he loosened the leather string of the bag to examine the glittering medallions.

“I reward good work where good work is done.” Phoebus replied, almost sheepishly.

“I am glad it was good for you, I quite enjoyed myself as well. I hope this will mean we get to do this again sometime.”

“I…might consider it, yes.”

_Definitely._

Clopin turned his back before the blonde could make note of the gypsy’s own hardening erection. If the truth were to be told, there was nothing the prostitute would have loved more than to have Phoebus shove him down and fuck him, free of goddamned charge.

But that could wait. It would give them both something to look forward to.

Meanwhile, he would have to take care of himself in an alley somewhere before making his way back out onto the streets.

“You’re going back out?”

Phoebus asked, fully concealed in his trousers as he followed Clopin to the door.

“Have to. The night is young.”

“It’s already so late.”

“For my business, it is young.”

The door was opened and the gypsy existed as the solider stayed, leaning against the door frame. Clopin took a few steps before calling softly over his shoulder,

“Until we meet again, I will count the seconds.”

It was a horribly cliché line, dripping too-sweet with a stale romanticism, prompting Phoebus to quirk an eyebrow,

“I can’t tell if you’re interested in seeing me specifically, or just interested in the payment.”

“Both, love. Which is so much more than I can say for the rest of Paris who only apply to the latter,” Clopin gave a gentle smile, “Do you believe that?”

“I trust you’re an honest man.”

 

 

\--

The End


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